(Nor for you, for one alone,

Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring,

For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you, O sane and sacred death. .)

Come, lovely and soothing Death;

Undulate round the world; serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each;

Sooner, or later, delicate Death.

Praised be the fathomless Universe

For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious;
And for love, sweet love. But praise! O praise and praise,
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.

Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet,

Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome ?

Then I chant it for thee; I glorify thee above all.

I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.

Approach, encompassing Death-strong deliveress,

idea!

When it is so, when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead,
Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,
Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death.

From me to thee glad serenades,

the all.

Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee, adornments and feastings

for thee,

And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting,

And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.

The night in silence under many a star,

The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,
And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veiled Death,
And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,

Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the
prairies wide,

Over the dense-packed cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,
I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death.

WALT WHITMAN (Memories of President Lincoln).

1061. FROM THE MEETING'

The smoking thunderbolts of Question us now from star and

VESTA

Our well-beloved resign!

Oh, less for her than for ourselves
We bow our heads and pray;
Her setting star, like Bethlehem's,
To Thee shall point the way.

1063. FROM 'CHILD-SONGS'

1064. COME, CHLOE, AND GIVE ME SWEET KISSES

COME, Chloe, and give me sweet kisses,
For sweeter sure never girl gave;
But why, in the midst of my blisses,
Do you ask me how many I'd have?
I'm not to be stinted in pleasure,

Then, prithee, my charmer, be kind,
For whilst I love thee above measure,
To numbers I'll ne'er be confined.
Count the bees that on Hybla are playing,

Count the flowers that enamel its fields,
Count the flocks that on Tempe are straying,
Or the grain that rich Sicily yields,

Go number the stars in the heaven,
Count how many sands on the shore,
When so many kisses you've given,
I still shall be craving for more.
To a heart full of love, let me hold thee,
To a heart that, dear Chloe, is thine;
In my arms I'll for ever enfold thee,

And twist round thy limbs like a vine.
What joy can be greater than this is ?

My life on thy lips shall be spent!
But the wretch that can number his kisses,
With few will be ever content.

SIR C. HANBURY WILLIAMS.

1065. BROADWAY

THE shadows lay along Broad-
way,

'Twas near the twilight tide,
And slowly there a lady fair

Was walking in her pride.
Alone walked she, but viewlessly
Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath
her feet,

And Honour charmed the
air,

And all astir looked kind on
her,

And called her good as fair;
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true,
For her heart was cold to all but
gold,

And the rich came not to woo : But honoured well are charms to sell,

If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair

A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail: 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,

And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow
For this world's peace to pray;
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way!-

But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven,
By man is cursed alway.

N. P. WILLIS.

Most gifted

Restoratio

1066. EPITAPH ON CHARLES II

HERE lies our Sovereign Lord the King,
Whose word no man relies on,

Who never said a foolish thing,

Nor ever did a wise one.

J. WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER.

1067. CONSTANCY

I CANNOT change, as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn;

Since that poor swain that sighs for you,
For you alone was born.

No, Phillis, no! your heart to move,

A surer way I'll try,

And to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on, will still love on, and die!

When killed with grief Amyntas lies,
And you to mind shall call

The sighs that now unpitied rise,
The tears that vainly fall:

That welcome hour, that ends this smart,
Will then begin your pain,

For such a faithful, tender heart

Can never break, can never break, in vain.

J. WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER.

1068. MY LIGHT THOU ART

My light thou art, without thy glorious sight
My eyes are darkened with eternal night;
My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.

Thou art my way, I wander if thou fly;
Thou art my light, if hid, how blind am I!
Thou art my life, if thou withdraw'st I die.

Thou art my life; if thou but turn away,
My life's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way;
Without thee, Love, I travel not, but stray.

J. WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER.

1069. UPON HIS DRINKING IN A BOWL.

VULCAN, contrive me such a cup

As Nestor used of old;
Show all thy skill to trim it up,
Damask it round with gold.

Make it so large that, filled with
sack

Up to the swelling brim,
Vast toasts on the delicious lake
Like ships at sea may swim.

Engrave not battle on his cheek:

With war I've nought to do. I'm none of those that took Maestrich,

Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.

Let it no name of planets tell,
Fixed stars or constellations,
For I am no Sir Sidrophel,

Nor none of his relations.

But carve thereon a spreading vine,

Then add two lovely boys; Their limbs in amorous folds entwine,

The type of future joys.

Cupid and Bacchus my saints are ;

May drink and love still reign !
With wine I wash away my cares
And then to love again.
J. WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER.